


Four Times Hershel Layton Tried To Be An Kind Of Okay Person And The One Time He Failed

by 999blackflowers



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: 4 times + 1 time, Badly coping with mental illness, Gen, Hershel from before he met Luke up until he meets him, It's by me look at the tags you can guess what it is, Trigger warnings within fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25376788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/999blackflowers/pseuds/999blackflowers
Summary: Hershel Layton has a problem he isn't very good at coping with.
Relationships: Hershel Layton/Luke Triton
Comments: 13
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N from 999blackflowers: I've had this sitting around for a while so I hope you enjoy.
> 
> TRIGGER INFORMATION  
> This fanfiction does not pull any punches. It's explicit and is meant to be an unpleasant read as it's essentially Hershel badly coping with being a pedophile. He doesn't sexually abuse anyone but he does masturbate to little Clive at some point which is why this is tagged Underage. If you are uncomfortable you should turn back now. Trigger warnings will be done by chapter.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Hershel is turned on watching a child eat ice cream

Hershel Layton had been delivering little slips of paper throughout London, in trembling shaky hands. His fingers were dark and ashy with the ink from the flyers he’d gotten printed. Send inquiries to Hershel Layton in the Gressenheller University dormitory if you need some babysitting done.

Did the people of London need babysitting done? Hershel had babysit tons back home in Stansbury, mostly because everyone knew each other… He did a good job, apparently. He was good at playing with the kids and making sure they were happy and got to bed on time.

The Hershel trick - he’d picked it up from an idea from Randall, actually - tell them a really boring story and watch them doze off. That, and ply them with ice cream beforehand to keep them quiet and happy.

Now. To wait for the inquiries.

He hopped on his bike to go through the park. One of his friends - a nice slightly older man named Clark had basically taken him under his wing to help him get some rudimentary knowledge on archeology considering he barely had anything beyond Randall’s ramblings. And he’d given him this bike! And the idea of biking through the park to blow off steam.

Hershel had been in London for a season so far. He didn’t have much money but the dormitories provided food and shelter as well as a small space to call his own. Spring was settling in but he had become a bit aware of the fact the air tasted different in his mouth now. His head felt different. Not abnormal, just… a new normal. Likely the change of location.

He went down a small sloped path on his bike, a grin spreading across his face as he did. He’d just go past the playground and then go home and be done with it.

\--

Hershel Layton had been welcomed into a beautiful little suburban home, white picket fence and all. Flowery curtains, beautiful plush carpet, toys all over the floor…   
  
“Mister Layton.” The woman in front of him dropped a tube of lipstick into her purse, snapping it shut with a click. Blonde hair around her shoulders and a black dress- right next to her man hands ox of a husband wearing a suit, his face too round and too bald. “We expect Timothy to be in bed by 8pm, correct?”

“Yes, understandable.” Hershel nodded slowly. “Does he have any dietary restrictions I should know about?”

“Don’t feed him sugar before bed.” The woman informed him. “We will let you go when we return.”

“Estimated time?”

“Early hours of the morning, most likely.”

Hershel gave a nod. “Have a good evening, then!”

“You too.” And her silent ox of a husband grunted, opening the door and letting them slip through. The door shortly closed. 

Hershel felt the silence rip through the air. He sighed and went to go find the kid - in the living room, as expected. A mop of blond curls, a pale face and brown eyes - shorts and a t-shirt. Perhaps around 7 or 8 years old. He was playing with some toy cars, mashing them together and over each other.

“Porsha, go!” “We have to find the last drop of water!” The kid did all sorts of voices. Hershel’s eyes went up to a glass of water on a stool. What a curious world he’d set up.

“Would you like something for dessert, Timothy?” Hershel gave a little smile down to the kid.

“Ice cweam?” The kid’s eyes met Hershel’s and Hershel immediately felt dizzy.

“Yes, I’ll go see if you have any.”

So Hershel went to the kitchen, finding it once again white and pristine with hardwood floors. He searched the cabinets until he found a bowl and then opened the freezer - indeed, some vanilla ice cream.

And soon he moved back into the room with that bowl of ice cream, sitting it down next to the kid as he played, taking a seat. This was how he got to be the best babysitter of Stansbury. 

“Can you feed it to me?” The kid looked up at him.

“Of course!” Hershel got that small spoon and got a tiny bit of vanilla ice cream.

The kid just weirdly licked the ice cream off the spoon, but… not all of it. He had cute bouncing curls too, and his eyelashes were long. Hershel didn’t know why he was paying attention to it suddenly. He dug the spoon back into the bowl and extended it again to the kid, mouthing around it and sucking on the spoon and licking his lips to get white around his lips and

“Do you normally eat like this?” Hershel murmured.

“Mhmm!” The kid nodded, Hershel getting a bigger chunk of ice cream. This was mesmerising, although he wished he’d eat tidier. 

His mind was hazing. He felt weirdly tired. Lightheaded? He felt like his core was heating up.

“Aren’t you a cute thing?” Hershel found himself cooing. The kid beamed at him and nodded, white around his lips. He went to dip the spoon into the tub of ice cream when he felt the heat in his pants. 

Glancing down, he did see his tight jeans tented. The kid quickly grabbed the spoon from his hand and plunged it into the ice cream tub. Hershel blinked slowly and decided to get to his feet, a wave of dizziness washing over him as he stood.

“Mister?”

“I’ll be back.” Hershel turned on his heel, almost stumbling. The house was relatively large, but he managed to find a corridor and an open door with a tiled room inside. Stumbling inside, he slammed the door shut behind him. 

Hershel slid to the ground and tried to gather himself. He did feel a sense of  _ arousal,  _ and the thought  _ terrified  _ him. 

…

What exactly had turned him on? He hoped to god it wasn’t the kid. But he did think to himself, the kid would look cute with cum in his curls.

He buried his face in his hands.

Unforgivable.

He took a deep breath and began to try and plot things out. This hadn’t happened before, so surely it couldn’t happen again. It wouldn’t. He could make it through the night with an awkward boner, and he could just carry on as usual tomorrow. He hoped. Goddamn, he hoped. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Claire's death  
> Hospitals  
> Suicidal Contemplation  
> Hershel masturbates to a sleeping child

Hershel felt dizzy. His ears were ringing and he felt lighter than air - screams around him in the street and then silence. Energy had torn through the air and rendered brief tears in the sky for a moment, but those had mended. The small tiny time travel experimentation facility, tiny, having detonated right in the streets - glass on the pavement and smoke filling his nostrils.

_ Claire _

_ Oh god, Claire. _

He felt a thump as something latched onto his legs. A child. He was wailing.

“H-Help meeee…” The kid clung to him, a young boy with a mess of brown hair - singed at the edges. Clearly needing something to hug. Hershel was barely thinking, oh god, oh Claire. He sunk to the ground and slowly embraced the poor child, a hand going to his hair and another hand going down to the back of his shorts. 

He wasn’t thinking. He was barely seeing. Or hearing. But he felt that soft warm hair and the cold wet asphalt beneath him, the body heat of another person. He felt warm breath on his neck and hot tears. 

Hershel felt the boy like putty in his arms, his mind covered in a black sky. Was he still there? There was that smell of smoke in his nostrils. His eyes suddenly came into soft focus as he saw the boy’s eyes meeting his, tears streaming. Hershel’s own eyes had become rivers. He could see snot from the boy’s nose and his singed hair up close. He smelled sweet. 

“L...let me make it… better.” Hershel’s brain had shut down, but he carefully cupped the boy’s face to kiss his cheek, tasting those warm lightly salted tears. And he kissed the other warm cheek, then nuzzling against it. The boy did not resist, seemingly melting into him. Nothing was real around them.

The boy clung to him, his head going to his neck as he began to pass out from the smoke.

\--

Hershel’s eyes slowly opened. The sky was blue outside the window. His heart was grey, the walls were grey, the ceiling was grey. He felt dried tears on his cheeks and he slowly pulled the breathing mask off. 

_ Claire. _

And like that, he curled up and began to weep in the hospital bed. He covered his face, biting his lip to try and prevent the tears from spilling only for the unsteady breathing and the brimming tears to come falling.  _ Another one.  _ He knew he shouldn’t have gone on that date with her, he  _ knew it,  _ Randall died and so did she. Useless. Useless. Useless. Why did he try? Why did he let himself fall in love again?

His eyes began to look at the various apparatuses around his bed, frantically picking out something he might be able to use to strangle himself. His vision was blurred from his tears- until - he focused on the person beside him. That caramel mop of hair and a larger breathing tank. He heard shaking hoarse breathing.

Hershel sat up and saw that poor boy, lying on his side with that breathing mask strapped around his face. He was trembling. A patient board at the bedside table read  _ CLIVE DOVE, age 11 _

_ I kissed his cheeks and tasted his tears. _

_ God they tasted good. _

Hershel briefly thought back to that night so long ago when he was in university doing babysitting. He’d stopped taking requests and calls as the next 3 jobs babysitting had presented similar  _ issues.  _ Then he’d started carrying a notebook with him to write his  _ thoughts  _ down in, as an attempt to pull them out of his head. Then he’d stopped drinking to maintain total control of himself at all times, then he’d stopped going to parks or going out for walks.

And he’d been placed in here. Every time he went outside it seemed like there was some kid existing near him, and each time he decided perhaps it would be best to leave the area. Paranoia went a long way. Somehow it all seemed meaningless. It was stupid.

Clive’s eyes were tightly squeezed shut, and he was making little trembling noises from pain. The way one of his hands grasped the sheets.

_ Fuck it. _

Hershel moved to sit on his hospital bed as he put a hand in his pants, grasping his hardening cock and beginning to slide his raw palm and fingers over it, grabbing a tissue with one hand to finish into once he was done. How else was he to respond? He was a pathetic husk of a man with no living family or friends. He was hard and  _ who would care?  _ The kid was asleep.

Little Clive trembled and shuddered in the bed across from him and Hershel unexpectedly finished, grasping that tissue around his cock as he had a weak short orgasm. Clarity.

_ Did he still want to live? _

...the answer was no, but he was too afraid to die as well, he quickly realized.

His journal was in the pocket of his coat hung up next to the breathing machine. He did not bother grabbing it. It didn’t matter anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Suicidal Thoughts  
> Hershel attempts to groom a child

“I hope to never see you here again.” Hershel spoke, walking down the steps of Scotland Yard with those nice new football trainers in a bag. “Perhaps you could take up… etymology.”

The child did not respond. His name was Oliver apparently. Oliver Waters. 

“WAIT!”

Hershel paused at the bottom of the steps, holding those trainers in the bag tight so the kid couldn’t snatch it at the last moment. But that woman with the acorn hair in a ponytail was quick to run down the steps to talk.

“Thank you so much!” She spoke as she got to the last step. 

Hershel gave a small smile, shaking his head. “No need to thank me, miss. Helping a young lady like you is the duty of every gentleman.”

The woman didn’t respond, perhaps a little surprised or awed, but he took the brim of his hat and told her to have a lovely day. He had to return those trainers with the kid in tow, hoping the bag actually had a receipt.

Oliver was twiddling his thumbs. Clearly he thought he was in trouble - a miracle the police hadn’t decided to arrest him under false charges against a lovely lady or something. He still had tears in his eyes. And oh, he couldn’t have that.

“Oliver? Would you like to pick up a pastry and a bit of tea before we return these?”

“Huh?” The kid looked up at him.

“I see you’re still upset, but I’m proud of you for owning up to your mistakes.” Hershel gave a slow nod, glancing over to a little bakery/cafe. He smiled a bit and began to pull him by the wrist, feeling Oliver try to tug against him ever so slightly.

The inside of the bakery smelt like freshly baked bread and various sweets. Oliver seemed to gasp in surprise. All sorts of little cakes and donuts in the display case, greenery hanging from the ceiling, pretty hanging light bulbs and plush seating. Hershel had been thinking of doing something like this for ages, in one way or another. Find some down and out kid, start with this routine. And the perfect opportunity had fallen into his lap.

“Would you like a berry scroll?” Hershel stepped up to the counter, drawing some cash from his wallet. The baker was a plump woman, attending to another customer buying a large loaf of ciabatta bread. Until then he could wait.

“Sure. I’ll…” Oliver mumbled. His feet were firmly planted to the ground but judging how he wrung his hands he was deeply uncomfortable. He did not look up from the ground. Guilt? Discomfort?

“I could get you some tea as well if you’d like.” 

“N-no thank you.”

Hershel forked over the cash and handed over the little bag to Oliver, trying to keep a warm smile. The kid took it slowly.

“That’s a good boy.” Hershel praised, the words falling from his lips without much thought. “You know, if you’d like, I could help tutor you after school.”

The plump woman behind the counter hastily handed him his change and the scroll, giving him a quick nod before she went to attend to the next customer. Hershel went to pass the scroll the boy, who took it gingerly.

“Th- that’s very nice, sir.”

“It would be such a pleasure, I’d be willing to do it for free.” 

“It’s alright, Mister Layton, I’ll…” Oliver took one look at him and bolted with the trainers out the door, skidding around the corner in the direction of the shoe shop. Hershel took a moment to process and sighed deeply.

…

_ Understandably. _

\--

Hershel found himself staring into his mirror, hands down on the vanity. He hadn’t gotten anywhere, but he didn’t know what had pushed him to do that.  _ Grief,  _ a part of him said, but that wasn’t an excuse. Most people grieved by taking time off work, or taking a holiday. Picking up a new hobby. Drinking their sorrows away or finding terribly unhealthy coping mechanisms. Inebriants, eating their feelings.

They didn’t make a conscious decision to start  _ seeking out children.  _

Pitying himself wasn’t going to make this any better. He’d never actually molested a kid, but he almost had. 

He needed to end it. But what would he do? Knife? Pills? Drink himself to death? He’d throw up and pass out first, and then by the time he woke up he’d be too scared to do it. He wasn’t allowed to be  _ scared,  _ this was  _ duty.  _

Hershel dipped his head and put his face in his hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Description/Contemplation of self harm  
> Suicidal Thoughts

Professor Hershel Layton sat at his desk, his hands tented. It had been 6 years since that incident. Back planted on his feet. Cut off contact with Clark. He had a kid now, you see, and of course he wasn’t going to visit. He’d lost a bit of his friend circle with his rigid rules, but.

Dean Delmona’s granddaughter sat on the floor on the rug of his office. Her name was Grace. A delightful little thing. But Hershel wasn’t going to look at her. He had his cup of tea and a book on his desk.

He could hear her playing away with some little wooden horse figures. But he was busy. He was busy staring down at his desk. It occurred to him he hadn’t eaten all day, but that was alright. His hands were shaking. 

16th of May 1970

_ Dean Delmona left me his granddaughter. I don’t want to look at her. _

Slammed the journal shut, shoved it into his jacket. He should get a cup of tea but that might mean looking back. 

Was he a crazy person? He gave up his right to live when he brought that random kid into the bakery. He still hadn’t got the courage to finish it, but it lingered in his mind. The situation he was in accentuated the urgency.

“Mister Layton…”

Inhale.

“Grace.” Hershel lifted his head but did not look at the girl behind him. 

“Do you have any puzzles, Mister Layton? Puzzles are fun.” He could hear her lilted voice but did not turn to face her. He did not notice it was rude. 

Hershel took a sheet of paper with a puzzle written on it, passing it back and feeling it slip out of his fingers as the girl took it. Supposedly she loved puzzles. And back to the journal.

16th of May 1970

_ Wanted to help Grace with the puzzle if she has trouble _

Slam. Jacket. Artifact. That’s what he was working on. Dusting this artifact. Oh boy, that was a lot of dust in those grooves! His shaky hand tried to clear it out using a tiny little brush, squinting down at the tiny tiny idol he was working on.

“Mister Laaaytoooon…”

“Do you need a glass of water?” Hershel did not lift his head from his work.

“Can you help me, please…?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Pleaaaase? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“Once again, I cannot.”

“Why won’t you look at me? What’re you working on, Mister Layton?”

16/05/70

_ Perhaps it would be best if I had my fingers removed with razor wire _

Slam

Jacket

Artif

Grace was tugging at his coat. He turned his eyes, sighing. Razor wire went for $1 each 0.7194244604316547 metre. Grace had green eyes.

“Let me see-!” She vaulted herself up onto the side of the chair, until she toppled a bit and suddenly she was on his lap and

Hershel pushed her off, pushing the chair back and going to leave the room. 

“Mister Layton?!”

For a moment he wished he wasn’t too afraid to die. He was going to call Dean Delmona and pretend he had come down with something. That he was unwell. Multiple sicknesses, you see.

His eyes were wet again. He wiped them and stormed to the phone, picking it up and hastily dialing the number. He could hear Grace stomping down the hallway, but for the moment he didn’t care.

A letter from Clark would be arriving the next day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Suicidal Contemplation

Hershel sat in a restaurant, his eyes down on his plate. He’d ordered a steak with potatoes and a little salad on the side. Clark and Brenda had certainly shelled out for a fancy London restaurant. The atmosphere was quiet yet lively, the walls with plush fabrics and the tables pristine with white table cloths and a beautiful ornate carpet floor. Brenda had opted for a soup and Clark - vegetarian as always - some kind of pasta.

Hershel wasn’t hungry. Even though this  _ was  _ his last meal. He was planning to drive into the ocean once this was all said and done. He wouldn’t show up for work and he would be missing from his apartment and maybe they’d find his body washed up on a beach somewhere, battered and bloated with sea water. It was long, long overdue. He should’ve done it long ago if he wasn’t so much of a coward.

“Hershel, dear friend.” Clark raised a glass of wine. Brenda did as well - making a brief toast together. Luke had a little plate of spaghetti and some apple juice on the other hand - Hershel had just water. He wasn’t up to making Clark pay for anything overly expensive beyond his own meal.

“Hm?”

“Me and Brenda have a proposition to make.” Clark spoke, sipping from his glass and setting it down.

“What kind?” Hershel asked, cutting into his steak and quietly hoping it wouldn’t interfere with his suicide later today.

“Brenda and I always wanted Luke to hopefully attend a private school in London near Gressenheller.” Clark spoke.

Hershel took a moment to remember if there actually was one before remembering he never let himself drive remotely near it.

“So, we thought it might be beneficial if… he could move in with you.” Brenda spoke, a warm smile coming to his face.

Hershel paused his cutting of the steak, his eyes going over to Luke who had shifted his chair closer to him.  _ The boy knew.  _ He’d planned this. Luke had the biggest eyes, the sweetest cheeks, the softest looking lips, and for that matter, extremely smart and inquisitive. He left him breathless, and that was unacceptable.

“I see.” Hershel gave a small smile. “Does the school offer boarding as an option?”

“No unfortunately.” Clark shook his head. “But. Luke has perked up so much since he met you, I think it would be beneficial for him to perhaps… be mentored by you somehow?”

“Is there an issue with the schools in Misthallery?”

“Not particularly, but they aren’t the best of the best. This school in London is. Would you have any trouble taking care of him? We could pay for his expenses still.” Clark suggested.

“All you’d have to do is… feed him and set up an airbed or a cot in your study.” Brenda explained the plan. “And I’m sure you could take him on more cases, he loves those.”

Hershel’s eyes flicked down to Luke at his side, a beaming smile on his face and a sparkle in those pretty eyes. 

“So, Luke lives with me in the apartment and you pay for his schooling expenses?” Hershel raised his eyes from Luke back to Clark and Brenda.

“This could be a life changing opportunity for Luke. He’s barely been able to… go outside before he met you.” Clark nodded.

_ … _

_ I could take him in. _

Hershel clasped his hands together, staring down into his fists as he pondered. Taking him in would be like letting him step in front of a train.

But. So what if he took him in?

His eyes passed down to little Luke, beautiful as always, that intelligent glint in his eye. He had a beaming grin on his face at the prospect. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t afraid, he had said he’d loved him. And god he  _ loved _ him so much.

“I.” Hershel spoke, opening his eyes. 

_ You’re failing _

“I’ll take him.” He croaked.

“Really?!” Luke gasped in delight, and Clark exhaled in relief. Brenda smiled widely. Hershel felt something indescribable. Sorrow? Joy? He didn’t know.

“Thank you, Hershel.” Clark smiled warmly. Luke scooted closer to him. Hershel’s brain ticked a moment and decided it would be best to perhaps delay his suicide at least until he could talk himself out of this situation.

He would not be able to.


End file.
